


Empathetic

by Saij



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Modification, Caretaking, Collars, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Dildos, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Kissing Lessons, M/M, Master/Slave, Sex Education, Sex Slave Dean Winchester, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Slow Build, Training
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 03:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20900930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saij/pseuds/Saij
Summary: Dean has been a slave in the salvage yards since he was a child. It's a hard and often short life, but he's accepted that he would  likely die young and alone. What he hadn't counted on though, was a stranger showing up that would take him from the only world he has ever known, and thrust him headfirst into a new and strange reality. Re-designated as a pleasure slave, Dean must learn to navigate new rules, new duties and new emotions as he undergoes formal education in the arts of pleasure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Just a heads up that this is NOT a violent story. I got kinda burned out on the whole, "let's beat a sex slave into submission" thing. There's a lot of stories out there about breaking a slaves spirit, and I wanted to do something a bit different, so if you’re looking for brutality, this is not the story for you. It won't be a love story either though. As for the Rape/Non-Con warning, that mostly addresses Dean's lack of choice in this world, more than it addresses any violence. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Just for once he wished for toothpaste, _real toothpaste. _He imagined that it might feel gritty, but he really couldn’t guess with any degree of accuracy. When he strained his memory back to his early childhood, he could recall that toothpaste had made his breath feel cool and tingly. Not at all like the warm antiseptic rinse he had been using for many years now. Not out of choice though. Nothing here was ever done out of choice. Bending over the grimy sink, rusted from years of heavy use with little cleaning, he spit the brown solution out of his mouth, turning on the tepid water to rinse the excess down the drain before straightening. The cracked mirror showed a man, young, but with an age hard to guess from the dirt caked onto his skin. It was his eyes that hinted at youth, brilliantly green with a hint of wickedness to them, the hard years not yet dulling their shine. Dean Winchester had been told before that he was beautiful, but he wasn’t buying it. What he was, was _tired._ One day bleeding into the next, callouses and achy muscles blending into each other. New on top of old, the cycle never ending. He had lost count of the number of times he laid awake in his bunk at night, counting down the years in his head. A slave in his line of work was expected to fail physically around thirty-five, their bodies giving out from years of hard labor. At sixteen, Dean was only halfway through his expected period of peak productivity. After that might come a couple of years of training replacement slaves, before potentially moving into lighter domestic labor, but even that would be short lived. The hard years of before meant even light labor would quickly become too much, and he knew that his time in this life would end with a quick injection by forty-five, fifty if he was lucky. He didn’t want to be lucky. He sighed and turned away from the mirror, a commotion in the barracks catching his attention.

“What the _hell _are you two doing now?” Dean asked, surveying the two men currently struggling on the floor, one with a bloody nose, the other with a cut lip and rapidly swelling eye. Both looked up in surprise, not realizing there had been anyone near to catch them mid fight. The man currently straddling bloody nose guy, jumped to his feet and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jumpsuit.

“We was just settlin’ somethin’, boy. It ain’t none of your concern. Ya should just go back to whatever’s you’s was doin’ before.” He turned and kicked the still prone man on the ground, drawing forth a litany of swear words from him as he attempted to grab at the other’s foot to pull him back down. Dean watched as the two started up their wrestling match again.

“Does Bobby know what you’re up to in here?” he asked, pleased with himself when the two men looked at each other with concern, then back to him.

“Ya gonna tell, boy? Tell on your fellow slave? All we gotta do is clear the air between us a bit, we ain’t gonna kill each other. How many times you seen us fight, Dean? Have we ever taken it too far?

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes in frustration. “Sean, you and Luke are always taking it too far. Then one of you gets knocked out of the game for a couple of days and Bobby gets pissed, and then everyone else has to pick up the slack while you two morons recover from whatever fight you just had. We’re all sick of it, so do me and everyone else a favor, and cut the shit.” Dean turned away, stomping between rows and rows of bunks, to the front door and outside. He wouldn’t wait for an answer from those two. He had given them enough of his time in the past years. Sean and Luke were in their late thirties, old for the work, but they hadn’t been slaves until six years ago. They had been contracted into slavery for their excessive credit card and gambling debts. Unable to pay, the credit card companies and gambling houses had pressed charges. Ten-year-old Dean hadn’t known what a credit card was, but he knew several slaves contracted because of gambling debts, and he had thought them all stupid. Whoever would willingly risk this existence probably deserved it he figured, but Sean and Luke still blamed the other and not themselves for their situation. Dean wished they would just accept their own blames and stop doling out extra work for him and the other slaves at the salvage. Leaving the barracks, he spotted Rufus, the site overseer, tallying the days product numbers. The man turned around at the sound of gravel crunching under Dean’s feet as he approached.

“Dean! We got good numbers today, lots of good metal for you boys to haul tomorrow, so you better eat good for lunch and dinner today!

“I always do, but we may have less help with hauling tomorrow if Luke and Sean don’t stop beating the hell out of each other in the barracks.” Dean said, smirking and jerking his head back toward barrack hall C.

“God damnit, those two!” Rufus spit on the dusty ground in irritation, before following Dean’s original path back towards the feuding pair. Dean smiled and shook his head ruefully, before heading to chow. Rufus would set them straight, knock some sense into them with the rod, at least for a week or two. The cycle never ending.

*********************************************************************************************

Bobby Singer was one of the most stubborn men Castiel ever had to deal with in his travels. The man was hard-headed, sarcastic and about as cultured as a wet paper towel. Still, Castiel had to admit that the man knew how to run a business.

“The numbers are runnin’ good so far. Production has been steady despite some hits to labor. The salvage is processing new intakes at the standard speed, but we could use some additional assistance if you want higher numbers next quarter.” Bobby said, waving his hand around to indicate the stacked cars, machinery, scrap metal and steel beams. Castiel gritted his teeth against the dusty air, grimacing. He hated site visits.

“Additional assistance?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah. This facility can hold 144 laborers, but we’ve got eighty-nine on site. I’ve had to put down six in the past eight months, resold four that were salvageable, and I’ve got one on house duty for light labor, but he’ll soon be out of commission as well. I could use at least eight more before the end of the fiscal year. Next year, I got three contract slaves up for release, so we’ll be short again. It’s a constant cycle as you well know.”

“That I do.” Castiel affirmed. He glanced again at the towering piles of metal and trash. “So, labor shortages are the biggest factor in determining my investors happiness, huh? I’m sure we can do something about that.” He turned back to Bobby. “The six slaves you put down; did you see if organs were salvageable for sale?”

Bobby shot him an offended look. “Course I did. All of them had parts that could be sold to the medical harvesters. I ain’t an idjit, _sir. _I got the paperwork back in the office. Knew to expect audits, you see.”

Castiel smiled, “I wasn’t trying to insult your intelligence, Mr. Singer. Merely verifying that every possible source of revenue was being covered.” He paused, inhaled deeply and blew the air out in a sharp short burst. “So, besides labor, is there anything else that needs to be addressed?”

Bobby sucked his teeth for a moment, glanced down at his clipboard, and then back up at Castiel. “I could really use a couple more tractors and a forklift. New skid steer be nice too.”

Castiel shook his head. “That, I am afraid, is not something I can help you with. You’ve already been budgeted your emissions for the year, and there isn’t any wiggle room in that budget. Additional equipment would send you right over that budget, and the EPA would shut down this facility for non-compliance.” He fixed Bobby with a hard stare; blue eyes boring into him. “No, your slaves will just have to keep processing manually as much as possible. Only run your equipment if absolutely necessary, to preferably keep us under the emissions budget. I might be able to squeeze in an extra slave or two, but that emissions budget _cannot _be exceeded.”

Bobby snorted, “not unless you can afford to exceed it, ain’t that right Mr. Novak?”

Castiel smiled tightly. “Yes, that’s true to an extent, but even I can only wiggle so much. And I don’t appreciate the tone. My grandfather saw the potential in this business and invested wisely. Two generations later, and there is still so much to do. Our children, their children after them, and their children after that will undoubtedly still be cleaning up from the excess of the twentieth and twenty first centuries. It’s good business, but if we want to avoid our ancestors’ mistakes, we cannot repeat them. Not even me.”

“I didn’t mean any offense, sir. My boys can still haul wreckage with the ropes and break it down with sledgehammers and heat for processing. No emissions in good ol’fashioned sweat.”

Castiel nodded in agreement. “Very true. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like that tour of the facility you promised. You said your overseer would be available?”

“Yeah, Rufus. He’s out in the yards. Give me a sec to get a hold of him.”

Castiel gave a patient nod, and waved a graceful hand through the air, indicating for Bobby to do what he needed to reach the overseer. Bobby produced a cell phone from his back pocket, pressed a couple of buttons, and held the phone to his ear. The conversation that followed was very short and Bobby hung up quickly.

“He’s on his way.”

“Good.” Castiel said. The sooner he completed this site visit, the sooner he could get back to Seattle and decent company and a good bed. Midwest accommodations were certainly lacking in charm. The two men stood awkwardly together until Rufus showed up, walking briskly, a man with a purpose in his step. He was a serious looking man with dark skin and an even more no-nonsense expression than Bobby Singer, Rufus was a man Castiel had never met, but had heard through the grapevine was very good at managing slaves in the work yards. He held out his hand.

“Rufus Turner, I presume. I’m Castiel Novak.”

Rufus shook his hand quickly before dropping it. “Oh, I know who you are Mr. Novak. Always good to know the person who ultimately determines one’s paycheck. I expect you’ll be wanting a tour then?”

Castiel smiled at the direct attitude. There was something to be said after all about the Midwest accommodations. “Yes, I would. Lead on.”

“Right then. This way.” With that Castiel followed Rufus out into the work yards, lamenting that he had worn a good pair of shoes.

The work yards were hot, dirty and stunk to high heaven. Castiel hated visiting the numerous yards scattered around the country and the globe. His family owned over three hundred such yards in fourteen different countries, and he had seen every one of them. His father had insisted on him learning of his inherited occupation from a young age, and Castiel had excelled in the world of business dealing with the refuse of two centuries of humanities indulgence and indifference to the earth. As it turned out though, there was good money to be made from cleanup, salvage and recycling for those who had invested early, as his grandfather had. He had built the foundations for the family wealth, and now it was up to Castiel and his brothers to make sure those foundations remained intact. Now with solid footing, Novak Environmental could begin branching out into new technologies. Clean technology and biological engineering in an effort to create lifeforms that would break metal and plastic back down to their original elements, giving them back to nature safely. It would make them even more wealthy than they already were and would guarantee his family’s wealth for generations to come. Yes, Castiel Novak was very proud of his family’s legacy.

“And over here, we have manual breakdown,” Rufus said, pointing to a group of about twenty slaves who were breaking apart a mid-twenty first century car with sledgehammers and cutting torches. A group of child slaves were scampering back and forth, dragging the smaller pieces onto sleds pulled by more slaves. Behind them, another group was trying to manually pick up a large steel beam and move it to the breakdown area. Rufus continued.

“After it gets broken down here, we move the debris to the furnaces. We’re utilizing your new chemicals in the fire along with pressure crushers to cleanly burn away toxins from the debris and get the physical debris into cubes for the recycling and repurposing plants. The heavier metals and plastics go into the chemical cookers and crushed.” He pointed to a building marked as a high heat hazard area. “We took your advice and are selling those by-products to the state transportation office for their new roads that are going tar free. It’s been a great partnership so far.”

Castiel surveyed the building and the slaves working around it. “I’m glad to hear that.” He turned and smiled at Rufus. “This facility is getting an “A” so far!”

Rufus actually looked giddy for just a brief second. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. I know Bobby will too.”

They continued the tour, Rufus occasionally stopping to point out something about a new procedure or future needs of the salvage yard. It was a well-oiled machine, this yard, Castiel thought to himself. It was small, one of the smallest his family owned, but there was no doubt in his mind that the two men running it were good at their jobs. He should inquire as to when their last raises were. He was pretty sure they were overdue. He was pulled out of his musings when he and Rufus came across a long row of locked gated pens incased in concrete. Inside two of the pens, two men sat on the hard floor watching their approach. Castiel looked back to Rufus.

“New acquisitions? I thought Bobby said you hadn’t gotten any new slaves recently.”

Rufus huffed. “Oh, we didn’t. These two spend most of their time in the pens. Always at each other’s throats. I’m constantly having to haul their sorry asses out here for a few days, before they settle down and become useful again.”

“That right?’ Castiel looked down at the two men, before kicking the locked gate of the closest. “What’s your story, buddy?”

The man stared haughtily back. “Nothin’ to tell. Just me and Luke here get in some right nasty disagreements, and we sort it out like real men is all. Ain’t no crime in that.”

“Maybe not,” Castiel agreed. “But there is a crime in costing this facility and in turn your masters and me money. You contracted or lifers?”

The second man in the adjacent pen, Luke, spoke up. “We’re contracted. We ain’t gonna be your inferiors forever.”

Castiel sneered in distaste at him. “Yes, you are as a matter of fact, free or no.” He turned back to the first man. “Contracted huh? What for?”

“Debt. It’s part of our bankruptcy agreement. We get a clean slate after eight years slavery. Then we’re outta here.”

Castiel squatted down in front of the mans holding pen, trying to keep dirt off his suit. He fixed the man in front of him with a glacial stare. “What’s your name, slave?”

“Sean.”

“Well, Sean. I have some bad news for you. You may not be a lifer, but even a contract slave in a court agreement can be terminated if they cost their betters more than they produce. And right now, you and your friend here are costing this facility and me more than you’re worth in production value. Singer and Turner would be completely justified in sending you to an injection site. At this rate, they’d make more money from your organs than they would from your labor. You’d do well to remember that.”

Sean eyes went wide and in the next cage over, Luke’s breathing had increased rapidly. He was blinking tears away, trying to remain stoic and failing. He spoke up in a trembling voice.

“Please sir, we didn’t mean nothin’ by it, honestly. We only got two years left. We can be good workers, can’t we Sean?” He looked desperately through the fencing to the other man, who nodded earnestly.

“Yeah, we can. We’ll be better, sir, we promise. Just give us a chance, you’ll see. There ain’t no need for talk of injections. We can work real hard. We’re both strong guys, just give us a chance to prove it to you.” His voice trailed away. “Just give us another chance, sir.”

Castiel studied their faces closely, trying to assess for honesty, before speaking. “Fine then. You get one, and I give Rufus here full rights for termination should you continue this line of behavior.” He turned to meet the other slaves gaze. “I want both of you to remember that your mechanical labor slaves, the bottom of the barrel as far as slaves go. You’re expendable and replaceable. There are a lot of people in the court system who could easily take your place and even more willing to contract themselves to slavery for debt forgiveness. Remember that.”

Both men nodded wildly, looking like deer caught in the headlights. Castiel gave one warning wag of his finger before standing and returning to Rufus.

“Shall we continue?”

Rufus threw a smug look at the two men then gestured for Castiel to follow him. More breakdown areas followed, each with a small group of slaves using a variety of methods to break down the scrap metal. Further along, Rufus showed him the sorting area. Here slaves were pushing, pulling and rolling the best they could using ropes and their bare hands the heavy metal automobiles, sheet metal, giant cinder blocks and assorted debris into organized piles by type of debris. The work looked intense. Men trying to negotiate objects weighing hundreds of pounds into piles, using nothing but the strength of their backs. Not the most efficient method Castiel thought, but at least their emission levels would be low from not running excess heavy machinery, which would translate to a nice tax break and bonuses for upper management. As he watched the men work, there came the loud sound of crunching and then something sliding. He took several rapid steps back as one of the piles of heavy steel began to topple under too much weight and height.

“WATCH IT!” one of the men screamed out as everyone scattered away from the pile, but some just a little too slowly. As Castiel looked on, the pile gave way and came crashing down. He saw one of the men fall under the weight and disappear under the avalanche of metal. Another slave was in its path and as the metal came for him, his body took on the pose of a cat about to pounce. He twisted away from the falling pieces as gracefully as flowing water. Castiel held his breath, waiting for him to be crushed as the other man had been, but the slave was nimble, seemingly dancing in between the pieces and even leaping in graceful arcs over some of the falling wreckage. He managed to get himself securely away from the jaws of death. No sooner had the pile stopped moving, then the slave sprung back into action, recovering from the shock faster than the others. He climbed onto the wreckage and lightly hopped from piece to piece, making his way to his fallen comrade.

“GET OVER HERE AND HELP!” he screamed at the others, who finally roused themselves and rushed in to provide him assistance. Together, they began to move the wreckage aside, attempting to recover the fallen man.

“Dean, he’s dead. Let it go.” Rufus called from his safe distance.

The slave named Dean looked up at that, before standing with such fluidity that it was a bit mesmerizing. “That doesn’t mean we leave him there. He deserves better than that. He’s given you twenty -two years. At least give him a few minutes for his body to be dug out so we can bury him properly.”

Rufus studied the slave for a moment, before nodding. “Carry on then.” The boy nodded and again began to help lift the pile from the dead man below. Castiel watched the slave that had been so bold as to talk back. Wearing the standard issue blue baggy jumpsuit and covered in dirt, oil and sweat, Castiel had been unable to visually determine his age, but his voice gave him away as young. He moved closer, before beckoning the slave to him. The slave seemed reluctant to leave the recovery effort, but finally obeyed his command. Castiel watched as he extradited himself from the pile and walked over to him. Even with the too large jumpsuit, Castiel could see the even and elegant gait of his walk. The slave stopped in front of him, and Castiel noticed immediately the eyes. The deep green of pine and wide with long thick lashes framing them. Castiel addressed him.

“Your loyalty to him is admirable. Rest assured you will have time to bury him and give him a proper send off.”

“It isn’t loyalty, just common decency. No one deserves to die like that and just have others go on as if it never happened. He shouldn’t have to wait for the rubble to be slowly cleared away in normal working processes. He deserves to be out of there as soon as possible and laid to rest,” the boy said.

Castiel studied him gravely. His features were hidden underneath layers of grime, but even then Castiel could see that he had delicate features with a perfect bow shaped mouth. His lips were horribly chapped but were a soft shade of pink. Castiel looked back into his eyes.

“What’s your name again, slave?”

The boy studied him for a moment before answering. “Dean,” he said at last.

“Well Dean, loyalty, decency or whatever you want to call it, you and the others can take today to prepare the body for burial. You can bury him in the fatality lot tomorrow morning. You won’t have to resume work until the afternoon.”

Dean just stared at him, before finally nodding. “Thank you, sir.” He turned and walked back to the others trying to pull wreckage off the top of the pile without waiting for an answer. Castiel watched him a moment longer before turning back to Rufus.

“I think that’s enough for one day.”

“Agreed.” Rufus said.

*******************************************************************************

Back in his hotel room, freshly showered and in a soft robe and loose sleep pants, Castiel mulled an idea over in his mind. It was a crazy idea; one he was sure would make his brother’s laugh. Hell, it made him laugh. He ordered dinner, tried to watch television, tried to work even, but the idea just kept running back and forth in his head. Finally, at a quarter after eleven, he had made up his mind. Sitting on the hotel bed, he reached for his phone and punched in a number. The other end rang several times, before a well accented voice answered.

“Hello, Castiel. How can I help you?”

Castiel fidgeted a bit but answered with confidence. “Crowley, I was wondering if you could come out here to Kansas tomorrow. You can use my emissions card for the airline, so it won’t cut into your emissions allotment any.”

The other end of the phone was silent for a handful of heartbeats.

“You want me to go to Kansas? Why on earth would I do that?”

Castiel rubbed his eyes in annoyance, but also in doubt.

“I think I found something, and I’d like for you to take a look. See if it meets the criteria.”

Crowley was silent again before, “that right? Well I guess it’s worth a looksee.”

“Thank you, Crowley. I’ll send the car for you at the airport, just send your flight details.”

“Will do, mate. See you tomorrow.”

The line went dead, and Castiel set the phone on the bedside table. Shirking off his robe, he climbed into bed and shut off the light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here it is! Sorry about the wait. Between school, work and writing two other stories, it took me longer than it should have. I am currently outlining the next few chapters, so I will at least know where I'm heading with this story!

Dean watched his master throw his head back into the pillow beneath him as he arched his back and tightened the fingers on his slave’s hips, eyes squeezing shut in ecstasy as Dean rode him hard. Exhausted from dancing late into the night and the subsequent activities that followed, Dean threw all his focus into his master’s completion. His thighs trembled as he lifted and brought himself down on his master again and again….and again. He tilted his pelvis slightly for a new and deeper angle, being sure to clench down hard on the downstroke, maximizing the pleasure his master would feel. He knew the man was close, had learned to read him so well over the years. Knew from the accelerated panting and soft forced moans, from the way his master’s pupils widened, nearly blacking out the blue of his irises as a sheen of sweat broke on his skin. So close. Dean threw back his own head in concentration as he worked to speed up even as his thighs and lungs screamed for rest. Below him, his master struggled to meet with him by thrusting his own hips up, but Dean would have none of that. He would finish his master without any help, thank you very much. He pulled his masters hands from his hips and pushed them down above the man’s head.

“Nuh-uh,” he whispered, giving his master a devilish grin. He released his hands and sat back up. “Stay,” and set back to grinding himself down, impaling himself with more force this time, rolling his hips with each stroke. Below him came a long drawn out and desperate moan. Wasting no time, Dean reached down and ran his nails down his master’s sides, causing a stinging pain, but no damage. That did it. With a last desperate cry, Dean felt his master’s release flood him, filling him with a familiar warmth. Dean held still during his master’s completion, keeping him securely within Dean’s embrace. When he could no longer feel the soft contractions of orgasm, Dean moved his hips up and down along the shaft slowly, squeezing his hole, bringing his master back down from his high gently. Dean heard the man swallow audibly.

“_Always so good…._,” he murmured, looking wrung out but sated. Dean smiled at the compliment, leaned down and gave a chaste closed mouth kiss to his master’s lips, little more than a peck. When the man had softened within him, he gently pulled himself off the body beneath him and studied his master before reaching down to brush back the sweat soaked hair from the man’s eyes. He gave a last kiss before standing.

“You need water master. I’ll be right back.”

The man merely nodded, eyes slipping closed in drowsiness. Dean padded out of the room as quietly as he could, making his way downstairs to the kitchen, one last task to complete. He paid no attention to his nakedness. Ellen would have gone home hours ago, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him nude many times before. Flipping on the light in the kitchen, Dean pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator, standing before it for a few moments enjoying the cooling waves on his overheated body. He didn’t linger though. His master still needed his attention. Turning off the light as he left, Dean ducked into the guest bathroom and grabbed a washcloth, soaking it in cool water, before making his way back up the stone staircase that curved elegantly along one entire wall, connecting the two floors of his master’s apartment. Reaching the bedroom again, Dean knelt and gently roused his master from his slumber.

“Here master, drink,” he said, tilting the water bottle to the man’s lips as he helped him to sit up. The exhausted man drank deeply, dribbling some of the water down his chin before sighing and collapsing back down on the pillows. Dean set the water bottle on the bedside table, before reaching out to run the cool cloth over the others face and neck. Already, his master was drifting off again, his breathing beginning to deepen and slow as sleep pulled him under. Dean moved the cloth down and lightly cleaned his master’s shaft, removing the mess of lubricant and come. Standing, he pulled the sheet over the sleeping figure and turned to leave. His master had given no indication that he wanted him to stay, so Dean took it as a liberty to do as he wanted. Closing the bedroom door softly behind him, he made his way to his own bedroom, wishing he had grabbed another bottle of water for himself, but feeling too spent to go back downstairs. He instead drank from cupped hands over his bathroom sink, letting the water flow down his throat and quench his parched insides. Splashing his face and quickly cleaning his own cock, Dean staggered to the king sized four poster bed in his room and collapsed on the cool silken sheets. It had been a long night and it was half past four in the morning. He groaned and burrowed into his pillows, sighing contently. He knew master would let him sleep well into the afternoon.

*******************************************************

“You wanna _what?” _Bobby Singer asked, looking between Castiel and Crowley as if they had lobsters crawling out their ears.

“Buy him. He’s wasted here in the yards, in the middle of nowhere.” Castiel answered, looking to Crowley for backup before returning his gaze to Singer. “Don’t worry. You’ll be compensated well for the loss.”

“It ain’t the money I’m worried about. Dean is one of my…. hell, he’s probably my _best _worker, and you wanna whisk him off to Seattle so you can play with him.” Bobby said, looking between Castiel and Crowley with a disgusted look on his face. From outside the office, the grating sounds of machinery and men yelling filtered in. Castiel wondered how anyone could live and work in such loud surroundings.

“Need I remind you that the slaves here in the yard and the yard itself are contracted under Novak Environmental, which technically means I already own him. The compensation is a generosity, not a requirement.” Castiel said, voice cooling in annoyance.

Bobby ran a hand over his face and readjusted the grimy truckers hat perched on his balding head. He looked between the two visitors in resignation. “I was gonna retire him from labor in just a few more years. Put him in charge of training new workers and helping out Rufus.” He looked imploringly at the two men. “He would’a been treated good. Gotten out of the barracks to his own cabin and been as free as any slave here could be. He’s gonna be hard to replace. ‘Sides, I watched that boy grow up.” Singer sighed and looked away, embarrassed by his emotional plea.

Castiel’s gaze softened and he sighed. “I understand good workers are hard to let go, and I know you wanted to give him more, but I cannot pass him up. He will have everything and more with me in Seattle. He will live better than he ever has and if you want to keep in contact, I will allow that.” Castiel said, trying to appeal to the man. Crowley chimed in.

“The lad has the right temperament, and of course, the right look. I’ve been looking for a paramour for dear Castiel here going on five years. Each one I’ve presented to him hasn’t been right. He’s too choosy for his own good.” He shot a sardonic look at Castiel, before returning his attention to Bobby. “And then viola, here’s a little diamond in the rough that he finds by complete accident. I’ve been watching the boy for the past four days, and trust me, I can train him up nicely,” he said, giving a knowing smirk.

It was true that both Crowley and Castiel had been watching Dean for the past several days. Under the guise of a site inspector, Crowley had trailed along behind the slaves, always finding a reason to be near Dean’s group, watching the boy going about his business. He’d not been happy about it though. Coming from a cushy penthouse full of beautiful slaves to the hot, dusty and rank salvage yards of Kansas had “put him off his dinner” on more than one occasion. But even he had to admit that Castiel had truly found a worthy product. The slave Castiel had stumbled onto was beautiful, some might even say stunning. Beauty, however, was only a small part of it. He had presented his best trained and exquisite stock, educated in pleasure and service to Castiel, and the man had turned them all down. He had scoured auctions looking for a suitable candidate to train, and still Castiel had seemed hesitant. Crowley was at his wits end, and so seized the chance to grab hold of this boy to finally satisfy one of his most picky clients to date. Crowley was reluctant to admit that Castiel may have been right to hold out. The slave, Dean, was a hard worker and eager to please those above him, but he was not a push over. A people pleaser he may be, but he had a defiant and independent streak in him that would push boundaries, but never overstep them. Submissive, but not cowed. Crowley had watched the boy comforting several of the other yard slaves after they had buried on who had died in some accident. The boy had instinctively known who to comfort and how. He was perfect for Castiel. Already he was imagining the boy’s training, and the money he would be worth once he was finished with his education. He grinned and forced himself to return to the conversation at hand, where Castiel was speaking.

“If you’ll just get his files, we can get the transfer going. I’ll deposit the two million in your account, and of course, buy a replacement of your choosing. I have another site visit down in Georgia, so I need to get going. The slave will travel back to Seattle with Crowley.” Castiel put on his best impatient face, shifting from foot to foot to emphasize his haste.

Singer looked like he might put up another fuss, but in the end, the man just grunted and went into the back office, returning a few moments later with a beige folder and a laptop clutched in one hand and a scanner in the other. Laying both on the desk, he picked up his phone and punched in a number, each movement harsh and exaggerated. He was not happy with this turn of events.

“Let me call Rufus so he can bring Dean up here,” he said irritably. “Might as well just get this over with.”

“Thank you.” Castiel and Crowley said together. Singer just glared at them.

*********************************************************************************

Dean was surprised but not concerned when Rufus found him in chemical breakdown zone five and informed him that he was wanted in the office, but he started to worry when he saw who was with Bobby when he arrived. His mind started to race as he caught site of the two inspectors. He knew one of them was the owner of the yard, but not which one. Had he done something wrong? Was there a problem with how the breakdowns were going? If that was the case though, why would they want to see him? He was a low ranked slave and had no say in the procedure. Deciding silence was his best option, he closed the door softly behind him, muffling the sounds of the yard just outside and turned to face Bobby, eyebrows raised in question.

“These gentlemen want to see ya, son.” Bobby stated, his voice tight for some reason. Dean turned to acknowledge the men with a slight bow.

“Sirs,” he said, keeping his eyes lowered respectfully. “How can I help you?”

The taller of the two stepped forward and seemed to be assessing him. “I’m Castiel Novak, the owner of the yard,” he said before turning to the other man, “and this is Crowley, an…associate of mine.” At the hesitation, Dean looked up into vivid blue eyes.

“Sir, I haven’t done anything wrong. I heard our numbers were good.” Dean said, a note of panic in his voice. It made the one called Crowley laugh under his breath. Castiel hushed him, waving a hand through the air dismissively.

“Easy slave. You’re in no trouble. There’s no real good way to say it, so I’ll just come out with it.” Castiel said, stepping sideways to lean against the desk and crossing his arms. “You’ve been sold.”

At those words, Dean felt the blood drain from his face. He felt lightheaded and cold adrenaline flooded his veins.

“Sold?” he croaked. “To who? To where?” He imagined a new yard somewhere cold and bleak like North Dakota, Bobby’s home state. Or a manufacturing line, working in dark oppressive conditions until his time ran out. Any number of more desperate scenarios running through his mind as he let the word “sold” sink in.

“To myself,” Castiel answered. “Or more specifically, to Crowley. He indicated the man in a black trench coat standing just off to the side. “Crowley here is paying the investment fee and will be responsible for your training. Once that is complete, he will sell...er...re-sell you to me. You will travel with him to Seattle to begin your training, and when you’re ready, I’ll acquire your services.”

Dean tried to process that. “What kind of training? Is there a yard you own in Seattle?”

“No, but Novak Environmental is headquartered there. As for your training, you will be trained to be a…well….a bit like a personal assistant. Crowley will introduce you to that when you get there.” Castiel met his eyes. Dean heard Crowley scoff slightly under his breath. “He’s an excellent trainer of slaves and fair. You’ll be in good hands. Plus, you’ll be out of the yards. Bobby here says you’re an excellent worker, and that’s what I’m looking for, so for now, no more questions. Let’s get your transfer completed.” Castiel said, sounding evasive to Dean, but he lowered his head in submission, though he was shaking inside. He had been at this yard since he was five, and his drunken and in debt father had sold him rather than himself. Dean had hoped to stay. He vaguely remembered a younger brother, Sam, who had just been a baby when their father had brought him here. He had hoped his brother might come looking for his someday. How would his brother find him? Maybe Bobby would tell him if Sam ever came looking. Dean looked to Bobby, trying to convey his fear without words. Bobby blew out a hard breath.

“Look kid. I know you’ve been here since before you could see over this desk,” he indicated, rapping his knuckles on the desks formica surface. “But you’re gettin’ the chance to see new things and away from this god-forsaken place. I’d take it as a good thing. Now get over here and stop dawdlin’”

Dean stepped numbly to the desk and Bobby took hold of his left arm, pushing up the sleeve to reveal his QR code tattooed on the inside of his wrist. Taking hold of the scanner and directing the reader over the code, Bobby pressed the trigger on the reader and Dean watched as a red light flashed out, reading his code. As he lowered the scanner, Bobby looked up at him and gave the arm a gentle squeeze.

“If that brother of yours ever comes calling, I’ll send him your way. Don’t you worry ‘bout that, boy,” he muttered quietly.

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded to Bobby. “Thank you.” Dean whispered. Bobby just gave him another sad nod and turned to the computer.

“Alright, Mr. Novak. Just gonna need you to put in your info here to take possession.” Bobby said, uploading the scanners information into the computer. “It’s a legit transfer system, but it might take federal records a few days to catch up with the asset transfer.”

“That’s fine,” Castiel said, bending down to type something into the computer system. A few more minutes of uploading information, entering payment and owner credentials, and Dean had been officially sold.

“If there’s anything you want to take with you, you should grab it now.” Castiel said, not looking up from where he had started to peruse Dean’s file folder. “You’ll go with Crowley when you get back to the office.” Castiel finally lowered the folder. “I’ve got a plane to catch and so do you.” Castiel strode to the door, opened it, and paused. “I’ll see you again when Crowley’s done with you.” He walked out and closed the door behind him, his departure so abrupt that is startled Dean. Crowley chuckled.

“Strange fish that one.” He turned to look at Dean. “Well, I haven’t got all day slave. Go get your things if you have any. I’d for one like to get out of this mudhole.”

Dean threw Bobby one last desperate glance, but the man was staring hard at his desk, refusing to meet his eyes. Dean turned and fled out the door Castiel had just left through. The walk back to the barracks was surreal. Dean kept looking around at everything, knowing he’d never see it again in all likelihood. Not that this was an enchanting place, but it was the only home he had ever known. He didn’t have any friends here so to speak. Most were contract slaves, temporarily indentured, and they came and went like the seasons. The lifers like him were older, had been sold or died, or were younger children. He’d just buried one of his few friends’ days ago. Perhaps it was a sign?

Reaching the barracks, he walked slowly between the rows of bunk beds until he reached his, 27A, the bottom bunk and his since he was five. He had covered one side with a tarp and the other with a faded yellow sheet with small white flower print that had been gifted to him when he was nine. It had belonged to a contract slave who had been kind to him and left it for the boy to use as he saw fit. Pulling back the tattered sheet, Dean surveyed his “room”. On the wall, several pictures he had drawn with crayons given to him by Bobby depicting rainbows, cars and a baby named Sam. Reverently taking them down and folding them, he tucked them inside the one comic book he had, an older Batman edition. The plastic-coated pillow and mattress belonged to the yard as did the gray wool blanket. Moving to the locker at the end of the bunkbed, he opened the one belonging to 27A and gazed at the meager selection inside. Four standard issue jumpsuits, several pairs of dingy underwear and black issued socks. He was already wearing his steel toed boots, but he decided to change to the non-slip black state issued shoes that would be more comfortable for travel. Shoving the underwear, socks, comic book and an extra jumpsuit into a plastic bag, Dean slammed closed the locker and turned away. There was nothing else for him to take on this sudden and unexpected journey. He didn’t dare look back for fear of crying as he left the barracks behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everytime you don't leave a comment, a kitten explodes!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. Sorry it took so long. I've been in Thailand for the past six weeks, and was too busy enjoying myself to write!

Dean had been looking forward to his first plane ride. He imagined an open feeling of freedom when looking at the clouds from above. Wondered what the lay of the earth would look like below him. As it was, he never found out. Once through the numerous and exhausting airport checkpoints, Dean had been checked into cargo and separated from Crowley. Temporary binders had been used to secure his hands behind his back as he was led along a service corridor leading to a lower entry gate of the aircraft into cargo storage, where security removed the binders and secured his ankles to a double ended chain that appeared to have been welded to the seat frame. The seat itself was comfortable enough, but there were no windows. Dean tried to hide his disappointment. Instead he watched as personnel loaded suitcases and containers into the holding area around him. His interest was piqued when two additional slaves were loaded alongside him, but his attempts at conversation were met with blank stares, and Dean quickly gave up any hope at camaraderie.

The flight itself had been uneventful, though takeoff had terrified him. Suddenly glad he could not see outside, he gripped both the armrests until his hands cramped. Once the plane had levelled off, he had settled a bit, but each time a small tremor of turbulence rattled the plane, a cold sweat broke over his skin and make his breath catch harshly in his throat. He was suddenly as eager to get off the plane as he had been to get on it. He had risked movement twice to use the restroom, grateful that the chain reached to the small curtained area where a small toilet and sink had been installed along with a large water dispenser and paper cups. Dean was thrilled to discover that chocolate chip granola bars had been laid out as well. He hadn’t tasted chocolate since last Christmas when Bobby had given him a jumbo-sized bag of M&M’s. He happily munched on the bars the rest of the way, managing to hold them down when the plane began to descend and land, jarring him in his seat at the harsh bump as the wheels made contact with the tarmac. Grateful to be on solid ground once more, Dean sat back and waited to be unloaded with the rest of the cargo.

\---------------------------------------

“You’re going to get whiplash if you keep that up.”

Dean jerked back from the window feeling his face burn red. Crowley chuckled and settled further back into the soft buttery leather seat of the nicest car Dean had ever seen.

“Sorry,” Dean murmured. “Just never seen buildings like these.”

Crowley gave him a soft smile.

“You’ll grow accustomed soon enough. Eventually they’ll even bore you.”

Dean highly doubted he would tire of Seattle after a life spent on the vast empty prairies, but he nodded in passive agreement and went back to staring out the window, focusing on keeping his head from craning again as they turned down a quiet lane bordered on either side by lush ferns. Dean sat up straighter and felt his jaw drop open as a manor house came into view. Made of stone, it blended seamlessly into the forested lot surrounding it. Dean could scarcely believe they were still in the city.

“Alright, out you get,” Crowley huffed as he pulled himself out of the car. Dean took one last glance at the imposing house and followed.

The interior was on a level of grandeur that Dean had never imagined could even exist. Over the top gold trim along the ceilings mixed with rich dark woods and velvet curtains adorned the interior. He immediately felt out of place.

“Come along, Dean,” Crowley called out to him. “Let’s get you fed and rested. We start your training first thing tomorrow.” Crowley gestured for him to follow. They passed through a series of elaborate rooms, each displaying large oil paintings and dark furniture, until they reached a dining room with a table large enough to seat at least twenty.

“Sit.” Crowley indicated one of high-backed chairs as he himself settled at the head of the table. Dean sat nervously, hyper aware of his dirty hair and nails. He clasped his hands in his lap, unsure what to do with them, as a beautiful slave appeared with a rolling cart from the kitchens. Her lips turned up in a soft demure smile as she curtsied and began setting out plates and platters of roast chicken and salad greens. Dean marveled at the gold slave bangles and collar that adorned her caramel wrists and throat as she poured wine for the two of them. He fingered his own black plasteel collar in embarrassed comparison as he watched her, but she never spared him a glance as she excused herself politely to a corner to wait for them to finish their supper.

“After you’ve eaten you can bathe, and then you’ll join the other slaves in training in the dorm. I want you to try to rest. You’ll be putting in some long hours as Castiel would like to take custody within six months. Normally it takes twice that to properly train a decent slave.”

Dean studied the man as he elegantly used a knife and fork to cut his meat and watched the way he delicately sipped at his wine. He stared at his own plate in confused hunger and frustration. He had never used a fork and knife in combination. Most of the diet at the yards consisted of high calorie, high protein mashes or beans. No of it had required anything beyond a simple spoon. He clumsily tried to emulate the posh man seated next to him, nervous also in the fact that he had never dined at the same table as a freeman. His face scrunched as he tried wine for the first time and hastily set it back down.

“You said I’d be some kind of personal assistant?”

Next to him, Crowley cleared his throat, set down his silverware, and dabbed at his mouth lightly with his napkin before finally looking up at Dean.

“Yes,” he said, taking a measured sip of his wine. “You will be trained in a variety of subjects. These include scheduling, personal care of your master, household operations…among other…things.”

“Other things?”

Crowley locked eyes with him. “Dean, you were chosen by Castiel because you have the right temperament for a variety of tasks. You aim to please, whether you mean to or not, and you’re highly intuitive of other’s needs. These are the hallmarks that make great personal assistants who will focus solely on their duties to their masters.” Here, Crowley leaned back and set down his wine glass. “However, your primary responsibility will be serving your master in a way that provides him pleasure.”

Dean’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “Pleasure?’

From the corner came an almost silent giggle. “Quiet Marla,” Crowley chastised the woman. She immediately fell silent.

“Yes, pleasure.”

Crowley went back to eating as he continued. Dean tried to do the same.

“You will learn how to make your master happy. This will involve getting to know him of course. Right now, you know nothing of the man, but you’ll learn. You will learn what things calm him after a hard day’s work. Bubble baths, scotch, a rousing game of Monopoly perhaps.”

At Deans bewildered expression, Crowley just laughed. “I’m just using made up examples of course. You will have to figure that out when you go into your master’s service, but you’re good at reading others. You’ll do fine.” Crowley finished the last of his greens and sat back again, gesturing for Dean to continue to eat. Dean hastily picked up his fork and speared the chicken on his plate. If his primitive dining style offended Crowley, the man didn’t say anything. “First and foremost, however, you will serve as a paramour.”

Dean looked up from his plate, not understanding. “What’s a paramour?”

Crowley studied him and clucked his tongue. Finally, he drew in a breath and said, “It is an old French word for lover.”

“Lover…? Like…like what kind of lover? Wait..what?”

Crowley burst into quiet laughter. “What kind of lover do you think, Dean?” At this, he snapped for Marla to refill his wine, then turned back to Dean. “You will service him in the realm of physical pleasure.”

Dean sat in stunned silence. _He would what? He was sixteen….and not interested in men…and…he had… he had never…._

“I..I..” Dean’s gaze flew across the room, trying to find something to focus on. “I..can’t do that. He’s a man and I….I’ve never…I don’t want to.” Dean stood abruptly, the chair toppling in his haste to move away. “I can’t….I won’t. You can’t make me. I’m sixteen and he’s _old!_”

Crowley did not react to his outburst. He remained seated and stared calmly at the wine in his hands. “A pleasure slave need only be fifteen to be of service, Dean. And poor Castiel is only thirty-three. Hardly ancient. And you’re wrong on another point. I _can _make you. You are my property for the time being and mine to do with as I see fit.”

Dean stopped his pacing and just stared at the wall, He clenched his fists at his sides and set his teeth.

“However,…” Crowley continued. “That would not be prudent to the makings of a good paramour, now would it? I could indeed force you by other means, if you will not serve Castiel willingly. You are quite beautiful, and to send you back to some salvage yard would be a waste. I could sell you tonight to a pleasure house for a handsome sum, and believe me, _they would_ force you. Every night until your used up. But that’s not what I want. That’s not what you want. I see the makings of a perfect paramour in you. Loyal, dedicated, kind, a serving and obedient spirit. Quick and alert and assertive. I train the best, Dean, and you could be among them.”

Dean turned slightly to meet his eye. Crowley paused for a handful of heartbeats before continuing.

“A paramour is tantamount to a high-end luxury item. A companion, friend, assistant and yes…a lover. Not in the romantic sense to be certain, but they are there to provide a support for those, like Castiel, who prefer to remain…unattached…but still have needs.” Crowley took a long draw of his wine. “A paramour strives to serve, is attentive and empathetic. All qualities that you possess, Dean. You would not be on your back every moment of the day, or poor Castiel would surely die of exhaustion!”

At this, Dean found himself snorting despite himself. Crowley pressed on.

“You would live well, be taken care of. Most paramours are even cared for in old age. They do tend to worm their ways into their master’s hearts. Imagine caring for a person wholly, Dean. Having someone to dedicate yourself to, and in turn, be cared for as well. I can see that level of dedication in you. I watched you with the other salvage slaves. I will not let you go easily.”

Dean dropped his gaze to the floor feeling a lump begin to form in his throat. He had tried _so…many…times _to please and serve Bobby, but the man was so aloof. He kept everyone at a distance, so Dean had poured his energies into labor instead, but it had left a void. He _wanted _to care for someone, and that desire had always been denied him. Maybe, if he could somehow overlook the physical part of…of this…. this arrangement, he could finally do what came so naturally to him, assuming he could even grow to care for this strange new master. Crowley seemed to sense his struggle.

“For tonight, I want you to bathe and sleep. Things will be clearer in the morning and we’ll talk then. Now, Marla will show you to the accommodations.”

With that, Crowley stood and walked out of the room, not giving Dean time to say anything in retaliation or defense.

\-------------------------------------------------

That night, freshly bathed and still marveling at the taste of real toothpaste in his mouth, Dean lay awake, though he was in the most luxurious bed he had ever seen, much less lain in. His mind was racing. Could he do this? Did he want to? Would Crowley really sell him to a pleasure house? Was this…Castiel…cruel or kind, or worse, seemingly indifferent as Bobby had been? What if this Castiel grew tired of him? Sold him to who knows where? What would happen to him then? Over and over, the thoughts and questions tumbled through his mind even as he was desperate to sleep, to clear his head. He was still locked in a perpetual cycle of anxiety when the sun rose, and he could hear the other slaves stirring. He heard a steady stream of “good morning master” from the others and watched from where he still lay on the bed as Crowley approached him.

“Been thinking it through, have you?” the other man asked. Dean nodded.

“And?”

Dean sat up and studied his hands as he carefully laid them in his lap. He bit his lip, mind in shambles. Finally, he took a deep breath, locked eyes with Crowley who stood above him, and opened his mouth to speak…

*****************************************************************************

“Where is it? WHERE IS IT?!!”

Dean stood in the doorway of his master’s dressing room watching as the man practically tore apart the wardrobe in his frantic quest, before finally catching sight of Dean and whirling to face him.

“Have you seen my….,”his master trailed off as Dean held up the blue tie that precisely matched his master’s eyes. Castiel let out a dramatic sigh of relief.

“What would I do without you?” he asked, grabbing the tie from Dean’s hands and flinging the strip of cloth over his neck. He started fumbling with it, and Dean could see where one side was too long. He sighed and stepped forward, gently batting the other’s hands away as he began to fix the tie himself.

“You’d probably end up going naked, because you’d be too much of a wreck to even dress yourself, master.” Dean answered as he smoothed Castiel’s collar down and pressed invisible wrinkles from the sleeves of his master’s shirt. Castiel just grunted in affirmation as Dean smirked. Reaching out to grab a suit jacket, Dean motioned for Castiel to turn so he could slide the jacket on him.

“How am I supposed to convince anyone of this takeover? I _need _these salvage yards, but they’ve been a family business nearly as long as my yards have. I wouldn’t give up my family legacy. How am I going to convince them to give up theirs?” Castiel studied himself in the mirror, tugging down on sleeves that were already perfect. Dean squeezed the man’s shoulders in support.

“Just remind them of the middle management corruption and failing output numbers.” Here Dean stopped, licked his lips and lowered his eyes to appear more passive. “Y..you could suggest more of a merger…instead of a direct takeover.” Castiel’s eyes flew up to him, both eyebrows raised, but Dean pressed on. “It wouldn’t seem as hostile, and it would put you in charge, gain you revenue, but allow them to still hold on to part of their legacy, allow them to keep their dignity…” Dean trailed off, keeping his eyes trained on his feet.

Castiel studied him for long moments before giving a minute nod. “It’s a valid idea.” He turned to gather up his cufflinks, passing them to Dean to fasten. “I’ll pitch it and see what happens.”

Dean felt his shoulders relax and he simply nodded as he began to attach his master’s cufflinks, refraining from any further conversation. In the six years he had served his master, the man had never been cruel or forbade him from speaking when they were alone, but his master was taciturn at times and prone to a moody disposition if he failed to see something that others saw immediately. He could walk around like an angry storm cloud for days, leaving Dean walking on eggshells in an attempt to not further upset him. He was glad that Castiel seemed to accept his idea now though, happy he would not have to tiptoe around for the next few days.

Finished with the cufflinks, Dean ran a lint roller over his master’s shoulders, just in case, and straightened a few wild hairs at the back of his neck. “I’ve laid your briefcase with the agenda and notes in the foyer. I retyped them for you. Your handwriting was all over the place.”

Castiel gave him another soft smile, leaned over, and placed a gentle kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured softly, giving himself one last glance in the mirror. “Wish me luck.”

Dean shook his head and gave his widest smile. “You don’t need luck, master.” He gave one last squeeze of Castiel’s shoulder. “You got this!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make the world go round!


End file.
